Clothes
by onceandfuturewarlock
Summary: Merlin could swear he fell in love with her all over again. One-shot. Shameless fluff. Golden Age AU. Freylin.


When Merlin awoke, the other side of the bed was empty and cold, blankets thrown back to reveal the slight indent where Freya had lain the night before, cream sheets a touch rumpled.

The sight, though not unfamiliar, was still unwelcome, and pulled a low groan from his lips – despite how his schedule was fortunately a bit less hectic ever since Arthur had named him Court Sorcerer of the kingdom, no longer a servant and thus no longer subject to the whims of prattish masters, Merlin still regarded sleeping past sunrise as something of a rare delight…but it was a delight Freya had never shared.

Though she never seemed to begrudge it of him – quite the opposite, in fact, Arthur loved to joke about how often she indulged him –she detested any sort of idleness in herself, and it seemed she'd hardly stopped moving since she'd returned from Avalon three months ago.

At times, it troubled Merlin – how infrequently his love let herself relax, how resolutely she toiled, how heavily she labored, how persistently she pushed herself – but had grown to accept and even admire her diligence. Her work kept her, she confessed, from recalling the horrors of her past too often, and though he worried, he could not deny her this comfort.

Merlin shook himself from his thoughts, and rose reluctantly from the warm nest of quilts and cushions – Court Sorcerer he might be, but Arthur could still be something of a prat when he was late for council meetings. He raked one hand roughly through his unkempt hair in a pathetic attempt to flatten the bits that always stuck up, fumbled awkwardly with his trousers for several seconds, fingers still heavy and clumsy with sleep, before managing to draw them to his waist, turned to grab his tunic from where it had fallen yesterday and…and it was _gone_.

He stared at the bare floor a moment longer, blinking a few times as if to be sure it would not magically manifest before his eyes – in his defense, it _had_ happened before – as a frown spread slowly across his face. Come to think of it, his neckerchief was nowhere to be seen, either – which, okay, fine, Arthur had insisted on giving him an entirely new wardrobe, from the royal seamstress herself, no less, when he'd received his promotion, and while he appreciated the gift, it also made him distinctly uncomfortable; his king could very well bury him in titles if he so wished, but it wouldn't change that he was…well, still a servant at heart, and the silk and velvet trappings, while splendid, weren't _his_ , not the way his timeworn blue tunic or ratty red neckerchief or faded brown jacket were.

"Freya?" He pushed open the door to the airy antechamber and spotted her dark head immediately by the table, a stack of papers in her hand and a bowl of strawberries by her side.

She glanced up at once, dropping the papers down onto the table and rising from her seat to meet him, ripe red berry still in her fingers.

"Freya, have you seen what happened to my…?" The rest of his sentence died in his throat as he got his first proper look at her, and momentarily forgot how to breathe – his Freya, his gorgeous, _gorgeous_ Freya, had draped her beautiful body in his own, too-large tunic, neckline slipping off her slender shoulders, elegant legs stunningly bare, and his neckerchief tied loosely round her lovely, delicate throat, and he could swear he fell in love with her all over again.

"Merlin?" Her sweet, slightly shy voice pulled him from his thoughts, beautiful and bashful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "What are you looking for?"

"I...nothing," he managed breathlessly – he really needed to stop staring at her, and he would, just as soon as he could tear his eyes away. "Doesn't matter anymore."

Then, before he could stop himself, he grabbed Freya by the waist and pulled her to him, pressing a fierce kiss upon her mouth, tongue running, swiftly and lightly, over her teeth.

The strawberry dropped from her fingers uneaten as she returned the gesture with equal fervor, hands rising to cup the sides of his face.

Well, maybe he could be just a little late for the council meeting.

* * *

 **notes: guess who's been crying about freylin againnnnn**


End file.
